BLACKIE,S BIG DAY

                             BLACKIE’S DAY OUT

It was during the Second World War in 1944, I was a nine-year-old boy and loved to go anywhere with my Dad.  My father was about 34 at the time and although he thought he was in perfect shape, the war department disagreed. They said the varicose veins in his legs prevented him from joining any of the three forces, that and the fact he was over 30 and a married man with a family.  This was very hard on my father since both his brothers had joined up. Cliff the youngest was in the Royal Canadian Air Force, and had been reported missing for the past 6 months. Wilfred, Dad's older brother, was in hospital in England with serious injuries after being wounded in France. Dad wanted to be a tail gunner in a bomber, and couldn't quite figure what varicose veins had to do with pulling a trigger.  I believe my Father always felt like he had let his brothers down, and I know he missed them terribly.

Dad always took me with him on his hunting trips, which were more a reason to get out into the country, than do any hunting. My Dad and I had always gone hunting gophers since I was about five, but as the war went on everything became rationed, including gasoline. This didn't stop my Dad. It slowed us down considerably, but there was a sort of black market in gas. It worked this way; someone who had gasoline Ration Stamps would trade them for other Ration Stamps, meat for example, so in this way, by bartering Ration Stamps we managed to get enough gasoline for short jaunts.

But shells were another matter. Dad just couldn't get them.  So Dad decided we would make slingshots. Dad made us real men's slingshots, not the sissy little ones we kids made. My father wasn’t much for finesse but he was big on strong.  He got a large tree and found branches that joined into a V and made us both heavy slingshots.  He then went to the pharmacy and got the thickest surgical rubber he could find, and when he had finished we had the slingshot equivalent of Big Bertha.  (Big Bertha was a very large artillery piece from the First World War for you youngsters)

I honestly believe dad thought he would go moose hunting with these things.

The fact that I couldn't pull the rubber back half way restricted my range somewhat. Straining to pull the sling shot back caused my arm to wave around like it had a mind of its own, so accuracy was somewhat limited as well. As far as I can remember I never ever hit anything, but it was great fun to be out in the country with my father. We didn't use stones in our slingshots; if we were going to get large game we needed something much better than little rocks.

Dad had a better idea.

He took us, Blackie, our spoiled cocker Spaniel, and me over to the "John East Iron Works."   There we would rummage around in their trash for what Dad called "Slugs". Slugs were chunks of metal that were left over from a great machine that punched holes in large sheets of steel. We found the slugs out back of the plant, they were all mixed in with used oil and black soot, and we invariably were pretty dirtied up. However, it was Blackie who really got into the spirit of things. Oil and soot would fly in every direction as he frantically dug to help us find the slugs. He didn't get much opportunity at home to get messy, so he had to make up for it when he got the opportunity. Blackie went out of his way to get into every bit of oil and soot he could find. He would even roll over on his back in a pool of sooty oil with his four feet pawing the air, squirming his back into the mess, just to make sure he was truly dirty.

We made him ride home in the trunk. For a dog that ruled the roost at home, this insult was most unbecoming, and the look on his face definitely indicated he was not impressed.

Mom (who was a bit of a neat freak) always got after us for getting so dirty and oily. Nevertheless, Mom never got mad at Blackie.  Not on your life.

"Poor little Blackie." Mom would say as Blackie, droopy ears drooping to the floor, big sad brown eyes, a tear slowly rolling down, pathetically looking up at her.  "What have they done to you?" As she gingerly picked up that filthy dog, which, I swear was grinning over her shoulder at us as they marched off to the bathtub.

"And you two, outside and take your clothes off, you’re not coming into my house like that" Mom said

Blackie just might have been the most spoilt dog on earth; he always came first with my Mother.  He had his meals first (usually specially cooked meat), we had leftovers.

Blackie slept with Mom and Dad. Actually between Mom and Dad. 

Sideways.

It looked like Dad had about a foot of bed; Mom had one foot, and Blackie all the rest. Blackie snored, and he ran, and he woofed in his sleep. Why my Dad put up with all this, I'll never understand, but he loved Blackie as well, and when Blackie turned those big sad brown eyes on you, it was hard not to just want to hug him.

Since Blackie was pampered to say the least, he was not your perfect physical specimen of doghood; no he was a little over weight. Actually, he was more or less round.

Barking made him pant.

Blackie always let on that he was the most ferocious and bravest dog on earth, particularly if he was in his yard, AND behind his fence. If any other dog went by he would go bezerk.  He acted just the same if he was on a leash, and was even worse when in the car. It was in the car that his bravery reached new heights.  No animal, from squirrel to horse was safe from his wrath, as he barked and clawed at the closed (hopefully) window.

Blackie loved going out in the car. If it even looked like we just might be going in the car, he would go and sit on the running board to make sure we would take him. In fact, if he heard the word "car" he would immediately take up his post.  So it was not surprising the first day we decided to go out and play great white hunter with our new slingshots Blackie was sitting in the middle between dad and I in our 1936 ford V8.

It was one of those perfect early spring mornings on the prairies.  The snow was all gone except for a few patches on the north side of the bluffs, (for all you British Columbians out there; in Saskatchewan a bluff is a small grove of trees or bush, not a cliff).  The sun was shining brightly, and the air had that wonderful new fresh willow smells which wafted up from the river by a light breeze.  It was hard to believe a war was being fought far away in Europe.

As we slowly drove along the rutted back roads of rural Saskatchewan Dad would point out the various places he had hunted for arrow heads, or chased a coyote or got stuck in the mud.

"Look at that beautiful Red Tailed hawk Larry." Dad would say.

Blackie and I would look in the direction his finger pointed. I often didn't actually see the hawk, (my Dad had unbelievable eyesight) or whatever it was he was showing us.

However, I always nodded.

Blackie always nodded as well.

As we bumped along we noticed some farmers had actually plowed a few fields, and the black earth stood out in sharp contrast to the unplowed fields with their dead crops from last year.

We also noticed a few jackrabbits off in the distance; it was easy to see these very large rabbits because they were still pure white. It was an early spring this year so their coats hadn’t changed yet, so they stood out stark against the black new earth. Blackie noticed them as well, he would go into his act, but not to enthusiastically since they were so far away, but he wanted to assure us he saw them.

"When are we going to try out our new Slingshots?” I asked.                         

 "Well this looks like as good a spot as any." Dad said.                                               

"But what are we going to shoot at "?                                                                          

"I thought we might have a hard time finding something." Dad said. "So I brought a few wine bottles I found in the alley this morning."

So we pulled over and we all got out of the car.

As I was setting a bottle up on a post Blackie suddenly let out his best howl, and started off into the newly plowed field across the road.  At first, we couldn’t see what he was after. Then a very large, very white, jackrabbit stood up on the black earth.  The jackrabbit watched this black round thing struggling over the furrows toward him. 

He didn't seem too worried. 

In fact, he didn't even move until Blackie got to within 20 feet or so, then he started to run.

I don’t think a jackrabbit knows how to run any way but fast, he took off like a shot.  Blackie was following in the rabbit’s footprints in the soft black soil. Well that Rabbit ran in a circle maybe 100ft across with Blackie doing an amazing job of following behind. Mind you he wasn't gaining on the rabbit of course but he was doing pretty well. It was about now that the Rabbit seemed to realize this wouldn't be much fun unless he slowed a bit, which he did. By the time they were on their second round, I don’t think Blackie could see the Rabbit at all so he just put his nose to the dirt and kept running.

This was quite a sight, here was this black overweight Cocker Spaniel, ears flapping like he was a swan beginning a takeoff run, puffing along behind this large sleek white Rabbit, who it was obvious was thoroughly enjoying this game.

Well even with his reduced speed, the rabbit, was gaining on poor Blackie, and before long the Rabbit had caught up on Blackie and was running along a few feet behind him.  So there they were running along together, Blackie with his nose to the ground.

 I'm sure in his mind it was just moments before he would catch his Rabbit.

Eventually the Rabbit got tired of this game and jumped into the inside of the little track they had made in the soft earth, and sat down again a few feet from it.

Blackie kept going. 

He wasn't going very fast but he definitely knew that Rabbit soon would be his.  A few minutes went by and Blackie got back to where the Rabbit had sat down.

"Now he'll see the Rabbit,” I said.

“I doubt it." Dad said. “He is to intent on smelling that Rabbit.  I don’t think he has raised his head since they got their little track going."

Dad was right; he puffed right by the Rabbit. It watched him as he went by, then as if a light bulb went off in its head that silly Rabbit ran across the circle to the other side and waited on their track until Blackie almost bumped into him. 

I should mention that Blackie started out on this adventure by letting out a tremendous howl, (for him). He hadn’t made a sound since their first round of the track (other than loud puffing). Now here he was just a few feet from his Rabbit, and away they went again, Blackie let out another howl, it wasn’t much of a howl, but under the circumstances very respectable.  We couldn’t figure out whether Blackie saw the Rabbit or just smelled it; in any event, he never lifted his head. 

Unfortunately the rabbit, knowing it was no contest, soon tired of this game; so with a great bound he left their track and disappeared into the next field. The fact that there was no rabbit didn’t seem to deter Blackie in the least, he just continued on, ears flopping, nose sniffing, running (much slower now) around and around his little race track.

“Well I think we’ve had just about enough of this.” Said dad laughing and wiping the tears from his eyes. “Call Blackie Larry and we’ll get going.”

My stomach was getting sore from laughing and I had to keep blinking the tears from my eyes.

“Here Blackie, here boy,” I called several times.

Blackie totally ignored me, he didn’t lift his head, or even slow down, just kept trudging (yes it had definitely become a chore) around his circle.

“Stay here Larry I’ll go get him.” Dad said.

With that Dad climbed over the fence and went over to Blackie's track, which was getting deeper with each pass of his little feet.  Dad got there just as that silly dog went by.  He called him but got the same response as me.

 So Dad straddled the track and waited for the little dog to complete another circuit.  A few minutes later Blackie was again approaching Dads position, head down, and sniffer working to beat the band, totally oblivious to anything but his vision of the rabbit.

As Blackie went between Dad’s legs, he quickly picked him up.  I guess we have all seen what a dog does when picked up while swimming, how their little feet continue to paddle after they are in the air, well this is exactly what Blackie did now. There was Dad standing laughing in the field, holding Blackie who was still running and sniffing. 

My stomach couldn’t handle much more of this, and I couldn’t see to good either.

Dad, when he had stopped laughing handed poor old Blackie over the fence to me.  Blackie’s little feet had stopped running by then, but I think his body just realized what it had been through, as he was just limp.  However, his wonderful brown eyes just sparkled as he turned them on me with a look that said;

 “Did you see that Larry?”

We put Blackie in his customary position in the front seat between Dad and me.  However, he decided he was just too tired to help drive home.  He slowly crawled over the back of the seat and curled up on the floor where he instantly went sound asleep.

Written by Larry W. Bennett